Today is my 40th birthday. 

I am not a very happy person. 

I woke up in a modern (crap) hotel room in New Jersey instead of some ancient palazzo in Venice Italy. I was supposed to be in Venice. Venice was promised to me twice now and each time it’s magically removed from the equation. This last time Hugo suddenly got a show at Mana Contemporary so all the plans changed. Once again. And there was nothing I could do about any of it.

I’ve been away from Mexico for over a week now, but I am still in a kind of cocoon. I haven’t reached out to anyone or made any big plans.  Being sick strips you of your ability to make plans.

The biggest thing I did was buy tickets to see a Lingua Ignota concert in Manhattan on May 8th; a birthday present- to myself. It was a risk, but it was one I was willing to make. To see the best thing that has ever come out of Del f*ing Mar perform live has been the brightest part of my trip so far. 

While Hugo paints walls and advances his career, it seems like I’ve mostly been in this hotel room fighting off a UTI (with herbs and teas, without antibiotics so far).  I’ve been dealing it for a month or even more. I think. And I keep feeling symptoms similar brucellosis, so that’s really screwing me over. 

And I’ve been being incredibly weird about going outside too much because not enough people are wearing masks any more. Even on the metro. 

And I have been weird about spending money. I don’t want to spend too much so I skip out on the public transportation, but then I go to the deli-market downstairs and blow way too much cash on food stuffs anyway. So much for not over-pending.

I have been a wreck for a long time. I’ve been a worrisome wreck for over a year and counting now. 

Need visible proof? I’m covered in adult acne. At which I scrape and claw at like any perfectly mentally sound person would. So it looks even more horrific. I have a skin picking habit after all. My lips have suffered this since I was in kindergarten. These painful and spots are the evidence of my inner state. 

I will wear long sleeves. I won’t wear that thong around the house. I will wear my mask constantly in public to cover this mess on my face. 

Hey, if I can keep on wearing a mask maybe I will just let all my chin hairs grown in and stop destroying my face trying to tweeze. 

I have to spend a lot more money on products and services to mend my wounds. The external and internal ones. Spend. Spend. Spend. 

I am doing my best to stay in some kind of physical shape. But when my joints swell up and I get headaches out of no where and there is shooting pain in random parts of my body, and I have no idea what is best to fuel my body with, I start questioning my entire existence. 

I am trying to put on pleasant faces and not be too mean, but I hurt. I am so jaded. 

And I am so lost. So left behind.

I never made plans that involved living this long.

I don’t know what all that cancer was for. 

I don’t know what these trucking bacterial infections are for.

I don’t know what I am anymore. Do I even exist as a me? Am I just a lump of warring bacteria now? 

What was the point of becoming a performer? I cannot perform now. I have no confidence in my body or my mind.

What was the point on having a uterus?

What abilities did I ever have? 

I cannot draw. I cannot paint. 

My writing hasn’t gotten me anywhere.

I have no voice.

No, I do not exist.

I am not a real person. 

The US government confirmed I am not a person when it never gave me any money during the pandemic. 

Hugo insists there are good things coming. For him. They are coming for him. I am just sort of here. Fading. Like any world weary elf that cannot cross the sea. Out of place. And out of time.

Certainly, not your problem. 

This evening I will dress in a tragic goth outfit and find the green fairy. Because I can do that in this part of the world. And it might just be.. a little.. you know… fun.   

Published by AserehT tm

Make good art. Or else.